


Blue Bells

by Destiel_ships_Johnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Big Brother Mycroft, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt John Watson, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Mentioned Mrs Hudson, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes - Freeform, Protective Mycroft, Romantic Fluff, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Feels, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Fluff, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Kissing, Sherlock-centric, Slow Burn, johnlock hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-01 04:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6501664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destiel_ships_Johnlock/pseuds/Destiel_ships_Johnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>!WORK FOR THE TUMBLR JOHNLOCK SPRING CHALLENGE!<br/>Sherlock and John work on a case, but there is something more in the way John looks at Sherlock, in the warm spring air, the little smiles they exchange. Something that makes it hard for John to write about the murder in his blog and for Sherlock to think as rationally as usually. When things take an unexpected turn, they suddenly find themselfes in a dangerous situation...</p><p>A story of unfolding love...</p><p>There will be three chapters, please tell me how you liked it :)</p><p>Note! I know i tagged Molly, Anderson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Moriarty and Donovan as characters but they are just side characters, with rather short appearences. So if you plan to read the fic because of them, you might want to overthink it. </p><p>Also it's rated Teen and up, but I'm not entirely sure if that's necessary. There are mentions of canon-typical violence, but nothing graphic, and neither sexual content. So don't let that stop you from reading, especially because you can skip these parts easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A strange case

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so this is chapter one. I have no idea what to put here, and I honestly don't think anybody even reads these (I have to admitt I ususally don't.) Please leave comments or Kudos if you feel like it, no pressure tho. So, a lot of people liked my first fic so... Enjoy!
> 
> When I write "***" it means i switch from Sherlock to John or the other way around. Like a switch of the POV except it's still third person, if you know what i mean. 
> 
> A longer space between two paragraphs means time has passed.

“Boring!” Sherlock shouted and John sighed, visibly annoyed. He stood at the door, looking at his friend, who sat in one of the chairs, his back turned to him. Sherlock refused to even listen to the details of the case. “Sherlock they didn’t find the weapon,” John said, trying to get the detective on board. “Well if I murdered my wife I wouldn’t exactly leave the pistol next to the corpse either,” Sherlock said, with a grin John could almost hear in his voice. John hesitated for a moment, the police didn’t say that they suspected the victim’s husband, but he decided not to ask. He wasn’t in the mood for one of Sherlock’s deductions, not after a long day at work and especially not after he had to leave his date because of Lestrade’s call. Instead he just informed Sherlock that the woman was, in fact, not shot, she had no visible injuries.

Sherlock slowly turned around in his chair to look at him, a spark of curiosity appearing in his blue eyes. “If that’s the case, why does the police suspect it to be a murder?” John raised an eyebrow. “She seemed to be perfectly healthy and was only about 30 years old. And she had recent fights with her husband” John said in the matter of facty voice.

“That’s not enough to suspect murder usually, is it?” Sherlock sounded interested now, so the blogger decided to continue. “It apparently happened very quickly. She got home with a cab at 5pm. Ten minutes later, her college came to visit her and to talk about the company. He found her cor- Sherlock?” John interrupted himself.

The detective had raised from his chair energetically, grabbing his blue coat. He was already half out of the flat when John looked up from his notepad. He heard Sherlock’s deep voice from the stairs. “Hurry John, we have a murder to solve!”

***

Sherlock closed the cab door with a bang as he looked at the modern house in the suburbs that had belonged to the murdered woman. A bunch of police men were gathered in the small garden, talking to a stressed short man in a business suit. The college that found the body. “Interesting” he whispered to himself. John turned his head a little, looking at Sherlock with those trustful, blue-green eyes. It was a familiar look, a short glare John gave him when Sherlock said something under his breath. Interested, attentive. John was the only one who did that, other people usually just ignored most of the things he said or did. His friend was different, he paid attention, he didn’t just write off Sherlock’s behaviour as weird and possibly even insane.Sherlock smiled a little. “Come on, let’s hope Lestrade’s men didn’t successfully destroy all the important evidence already.”

They walked up the small path that led to the house, John right behind Sherlock. “Hey freak!”, yelled a sharp, unfriendly voice, clearly Sargent Donovan’s. He turned around to see her staring at him, not hiding her annoyance very well. “When did you start obeying when John asks you to do something?” she asked mockingly. Sherlock stopped, looking at her in surprise. He hesitated, for once not being able to think of an answer. “I don’t… “, he started, stopping mid-sentence. Donovan laughed, clearly pleased by the sight of Sherlock’s sudden awkwardness. “Really? You refused to even listen to Lestrade when _he_ called you” Before Sherlock could even think of something to answer, a police officer distracted the sargent with a question.

Sherlock continued to walk, starting to observe the scene. The grass was squeezed at some places, but that didn’t mean anything, considering all the people running around. Dirty footprints caught the detective’s attention. Police men usually had clean shoes, and neither the murdered business woman nor the preppy co-worker who was still talking to the police were very likely to have dirty ones. The front door was made of turbid glass, fitting the huge window on the first floor that was probably giving an amazing view over the London downtown. There was a grey doormat right in front of the door. Sherlock smiled widely. This really did promise to become an interesting case.

They opened the door and went inside, went through the anteroom, which had nothing interesting in it, and got to the living room. The room was just as modern and thoughtfully decorated as Sherlock expected. It adjoined directly to the small, but expensive-looking kitchen. A black couch, a big flat screen TV and a big wooden table. Sherlock went over to the table and looked at it, not really paying attention. There was still a glass of water there, half full. He could see the leftover crumbs from her last meal. In the middle of the table there was a glass vase with blue field flowers in it.

“Sherlock! You came?” Lestrade had joined the two. Sherlock didn't greet him. “Where is the trash can?” he asked, instead. “The what?” Lestrade was confused and annoyed, nothing unusual for the man. “The trash can. I need to take a look at it” Lestrade just looked at Sherlock silently. John went to the kitchen, “here is one.” Typical for John, he always tried to help Sherlock and of course to impress him as well, tho he would never say it out loud. Sherlock followed him, and opened the trash can with his foot.

***

Sherlock could be weird at times. John watched as he got down and fished a little note from the can. Sherlock made a disappointed noise. “Too bad. Boring. It was her boyfriend.” Lestrade joined them, slightly confused. “Well… That’s what we suspected, yes, but, how did he do it? Have you got any proof?” Sherlock smiled and shot John a short look. John looked at him in obvious confusion, but didn’t ask. Sherlock grinned and changed his mind. “You know what, Inspector? I don’t have any proof. It was just a thought. Excuse us please” He turned around, his coat waving around his feet. “Sherlock-“, John started but stopped. It wouldn’t help. Sherlock was in the mood to be all impressive, and asking wouldn’t do any good, John knew that by now. While Lestrade shook his head and rested his palm on his forehead, Sherlock passed the table and grabbed one of the flowers. John raised an eyebrow. He decided to brush it off.

They left without anyone even asking anything, apparently everybody just had gotten used to them coming and going as they pleased by now.

 

Sherlock was playing the violin, and John was sitting in his old chair, writing something for his blog, or at least trying to. He already started writing about the new case, but somehow the writing didn’t go as smooth as usual. Not that much happened, but there was something about the way Sherlock had smiled at him right before he declared they would leave the crime scene, something about the warm spring air,…it seemed private. John always felt comfortable writing about their work, at least always except now. Now he wrote and rewrote sentence after sentence, staring at the almost blank page. He sighed and closed his laptop. He needed fresh air. John raised from the chair and put on his warmest jacket. It was late afternoon and the spring day was already getting colder.

“I’m going for a walk” he said casually, not expecting an answer. Surprisingly, the tunes topped and Sherlock replied “I’m coming with you.” John stopped, baffled. “Excuse me?” That was something Sherlock never did, and he certainly never expected it. “I’m coming with you. If that is fine for you.” Sherlock actually sounded serious. “Yeah... Yeah of course. Fine… Fine.” John nodded. Automatically he added “Take your coat and scarf, it’s already pretty cold outside” Realising what he just said, John shook his head at his own behaviour. _I’m not_ _Sherlock’s mother, for god’s sake._ _He can take care of himself._ Then again, could he really? John shook off the thought as Sherlock joined him, in his coat and with his scarf, thankfully not replying to his last sentence.

 

John stepped in the mild, if cool, air, taking a deep breath. It smelled fresh and spring-like, even in a big city like London, and the sun was shining pleasantly on his face. John often went for a walk when Sherlock was busy working on a case and he wasn’t in the mood to write his blog. Just nnormally alone. He glanced at Sherlock, who looked forward stubbornly, apparently not noticing the slight awkwardness of the situation. He wanted to break the silence, but couldn’t think of a thing to say, so he eventually just started walking. Sherlock followed him, deep down in his own thoughts, as usual.The whole situation was new and unfamiliar, but not at all bad.

 

By the time they reached a small park in the neighbourhood, the silence had gotten more comfortable and John had gotten used to it. Sherlock just walked silently next to him, still staring straight forwards. There was no way John could have told if he enjoyed it. The park was beautiful though, the trees just starting to grow green leaves and the first flowers of the spring starting to grow. John looked at Sherlock closely as they went on the little path. He studied his pale face, he looked sort of worried and very concentrated, the intelligent blue eyes a little bit narrowed, his pink lips pressed together. John turned his head again, reminding himself not to stare.

He cleared his throat. “So… Uh, why did you walk with me?” Sherlock seemed like he had been pulled back from a completely different world, but not angry like usually when somebody disturbed his thinking. “I have to think. About the case.” John was now  starring straight forwards too, in order to avoid awkward eye contact. “Tell me your thoughts” he said, “Maybe I can help.” Sherlock smiled, but it wasn’t mocking or arrogant. To John’s surprise, it was rather friendly. His friend’s reply came even more surprising.“I’d love to. But we will need to sit down, it might take a while.”

John knew that wasn’t why Sherlock actually wanted to sit down. He limbed a little again, not bad, but just enough to see it. Although it had mostly stopped, John sometimes still did that when he walked far ways and the situation wasn’t dangerous. He decided not to say anything about it and accept Sherlock’s statement as what it was- an offer to help. He nodded and pointed to a small bench nearby. It looked like a place young couples would enjoy spring at, John thought with slight amusement. The bench was made of wood and surrounded by some blue flowers. John thought he knew them from somewhere, but he shook of the thought. He was probably just imagining it.

It was a really nice place, especially considering they were in the middle of London. They set down on the bench, John a little troubled because of his leg. Sherlock started talking immediately, wanting to quickly share his thoughts. “Remember the dirty footsteps at the path towards the house, John?” He nodded. “They were suspicious. The door matt wasn’t dirty, and the anteroom was clean too, so obviously somebody got there, most likely did something at the door and went back. It surely wasn’t any of Miss Ashton’s usual visitors or co-workers, if business men didn’t start wearing dirty shoes recently. What would you leave at someone’s door? Or what else would you do there?”

Sherlock had talked calmer and slower than during his usual deductions, when he tried to impress people. Like this, he sounded more settled and comfortable. While Sherlock had been talking, John had been listening quietly, looking at his profile thoughtfully. Now he interrupted him. “Couldn’t they have left their shoes before the door?” Sherlock shook his head. “Good point, but no, I would have seen two footprints right next to each other near the wall. So I wondered what was left at the door mat. Mr X could have wanted to bring something personally and then lost his courage. Or it was something that couldn’t be delivered by post, both seemed likely. We went inside and I thought everything was clear… The vase with the field flowers. They could have been from Miss Ashton herself, but she surely had a tight plan and a full appointment book. People like us don’t waste their time picking flowers” John smiled at the last sentence. He could hear very clearly what Sherlock thought of people who picked field flowers.

“It was all clear for me John, it seemed so perfect. Some of the flowers were crushed like they had been on the ground. And all that was missing at the case was the murder weapon. It was such an elegant case, a bit of poison on the flowers, she picks them up and smells at them, and breathes it in. And I knew if the flowers were from a lover they would have arrived without a card, but I never thought they were. It was an attempt to be romantic from her boyfriend, the suspect Liam Nelson, and I found the expected card in the trashcan. It just said “from Liam” on it and I thought the case was already solved. Still, something held me back, it was like I already suspected something to be suspicious about the entire case. I decided that I needed evidence, leaving and taking one of the flowers with me.”

He stopped, John could feel how he tried to get to the solution. “I didn’t find anything. No poison, not even a little bit.” John looked up. “So… What does that mean now?” “It means, it was all too perfect, a trap I willingly ran into. Somebody tried to distract me, to steal my time-“ Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and jumped up  hectically. “Steal my time! There is evidence someone didn’t want me to see until it was too late! Come on!” John got up, confused and slightly overwhelmed, but he followed Sherlock as he ran towards the next street.


	2. Unexpected events and a long taxi drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of stuff happening, fluffy Johnlock, kind of a not so surprising plot twist, and the action starts ^^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Short chapter, but this is where the actual Johnlock starts, thanks to everyone who also read the boring story developing chapter, and especially thanks to my one and only commenter *sadness much* if you liked this fic please comment or leave kudos, it means a lot to me, and unluckly I just kinda run on positive motivation and encuraging, so if i don't know that people like it, I am often too lazy to write to be honest... Yeah, I'm kind of a mess. Whatever, here goes the fic!

They sat in a cab, slightly out of breath. Sherlock had told the driver to hurry to the house as quick as possible. Now he sat there, eyes closed, concentrated, and clearly worried. John understood most of what had happened by now-And why Sherlock was so focused. He had missed something; someone had wanted to distract him from the actual case by leaving obvious clues that led to the conclusion of poison on the flowers. 

John looked through the front window. The weather had changed completely, as quick as it only does in spring, going from bright blue sky and warm sun to a light grey sky that promised rain. They were driving through London- probably quicker than they should; Sherlock had promised an extra tip if the driver made it in 40 minutes.   
Sherlock seemed upset, shaking his head a little. It didn’t seem like he was coming to a solution. He sat there cramped, uncomfortable and not settled, legs crossed, forehead leaning in his left hand, his right hand resting on the seat between the two men. He seemed tired, and John knew why, ever since the woman had disappeared and Sherlock had faced Moriarty, he had trouble sleeping. John sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, because he needed to go to the bathroom or because he was thirsty, and he could almost always hear Sherlock doing something, wandering around the apartment or playing violin. John wished with all his heart he could do something for him, make it easier, but he didn’t know what or how, so he just pretended to not know about it. 

There was also something else, Sherlock still had fun with his work, actually a little too much fun sometimes, but when he couldn’t figure out a case he became kind of unsettled. Not that anybody besides John noticed, he hid it pretty well, but John of course did, and he was worried. He knew it was because Sherlock was afraid Moriarty could be behind any more complicated case. Now Sherlock seemed even worse than usually, dark circles under his eyes, leaning into his own hand like he was tired. 

John looked at him, and got over himself. He reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it slightly. Sherlock frowned, and John wanted to pull back- Jesus, what did he even think he was doing? But then Sherlock smiled a little, for such a short moment John barely noticed, but it was definitely there, and Sherlock seemed thankful. Without opening his eyes, head still turned to the window on his right side, he crossed his fingers with John’s. They remained like that during the whole drive and Sherlock seemed much calmer now. John felt a little awkward, but didn’t let go of his friend’s hand- It didn’t mean anything after all, Sherlock was his best friend and John just tried to help him, because that’s what friends do. They comfort each other.

***

John’s hand felt rough and warm in Sherlock’s. He never thought he would find comfort in other people’s touch, like ordinary people seemed to find in hugs, but this felt good, reassuring. Something distracted him, and he couldn’t help but to wonder how clever this crime might be, and who could be behind it. He felt like the solution was obvious, and he should already know it all, but something distracted him, stopped his thoughts from being clear and well-organised like usually, something that seemed to always sneak into his mind. John. John, who was always with him, and who never left, seemed to suddenly block his thoughts, distracted him from the important case. That had stopped after John took his hand, and it was replaced something else, that felt relaxing and warm. 

Sherlock leaned back, he was tired and overstrained. He had the vague feeling that the whole case was too clear and perfect to be real, and it didn’t seem likely that there was a certain clue he was missing. He never really thought it was Miss Ashton’s boyfriend. She was killed by poison most likely, and it surely wasn’t too difficult to poison her, but who did it? Her lover had only one obvious motive- He could have been jealous of her success, and they had relationship problems. Sherlock had seen crimes in which that was enough for a motive-a drunk lover who was blind in rage and took some dull object that he smashed against the victim’s head. But poison? No, poisoning someone required an exact plan, predictive thinking, nothing an angry boyfriend would do, it just didn’t fit. 

They stopped. The taxi driver looked at their hands with a weirded out expression. He coughed discreetly. “We are here, Sir” he said to Sherlock. John got flushed red like a school girl and pulled his hand back. Not paying attention to John, he gave the taxi driver the promised money and got out of the car, half sprinting up to the house.

***

John sighed. He was leaning against the wall and watched Sherlock run around the room hectically. “Sherlock, deal with it, there is no evidence you missed” The police had already left, leaving Sherlock, who was still convinced he would find important clues, and John, who gave up after the first hour of searching, in the modern house. “Maybe it’s something on the corpse” Sherlock murmured, just as a sudden noise made both of them look up. Somebody was opening the door with a key. Through the glass John could see a shadow. Sherlock slowly stood up and looked at the opening door.  
It did open now, slowly, and revealed a tall man in an expensive suit. He had a sunburned face, blonde, short hair, and dark brown eyes. He smiled. “Hello Sherlock” He said with a mocking voice. “I really expected you to be better.” Sherlock looked at him, and John could see the horror in his eyes. This reminded him of Moriarty. The situation had changed rabidly; there was something dangerous, aggressive about the man. “Did you actually think a case like this could be real? So perfectly fitting? Dirty footprints, really?” Sherlock looked at him, gaining back some of his usual calmness. “I suspected something like this” The man laughed. “No you didn’t. Or at least you didn’t get behind it all. A man like you has enemies, Mr Holmes, and I do assume you are prepared for this?”

Sherlock smiled coldly. “Indeed.” His hand slowly wandered to his jacket, in which John could now see the shape of a hidden, small hand gun. People who weren’t as used to spotting weapons as he was, probably wouldn’t even notice, John thought bitterly. Besides, Jesus, had Sherlock been carrying it around for the whole day? He had to be really paranoid about it all. 

The man glared at Sherlock’s hand. “Why are you doing this?” Sherlock asked with curiosity in his voice. “I understand that people look up to me, but murdering a woman just to see me?” He asked, apparently having his old sass back. The man’s smile seemed to crack and fall of his face, and it was replaced by pure hate. “Looking up to you? Looking up to you? You don’t even know what you did, do you? To her?” he asked, pure disgust filling his voice. Sherlock seemed concentrated, as he was trying to get behind all of this. “To her?” he murmured. “Yes, to her” the man was almost screaming now, before his voice lowered again. He only said a name, two words, but John could hear hidden pain in them. “Irene Adler”

Sherlock looked at him. So that was what this was about. There it was, the missing part of the puzzle, and it suddenly made sense. Miss Ashton had to die, just so Sherlock could pay for what this man thought he had done to the woman. The case turned out boring after all, apparently. Just love, not returned, and a heartbroken man who tried to get rid of his pain with violence. “So what are you going to do? Shoot me?” he asked mockingly. “No, more than that!” Sherlock shivered as he was reminded Moriarty. He shook off the thought.   
“I am going to take away your love, Mr Holmes.” Sherlock almost laughed. “Love? No, I have no weakness like that, I am sorry to disappoint you.” He didn’t reply, instead pulled out a gun, as did Sherlock. They stood there, guns raised and pointed at each other, Sherlock’s heart pumping as he felt the adrenaline running through his veins. He did not want to kill anyone, but he knew he’d be able to shoot quick and exact enough if he had too. The man took the gun tighter and Sherlock was expecting to see the trigger getting pulled, but something else entirely happened. The man did pull the trigger, but before he did, he pointed his gun somewhere else.


	3. Lestrade saves the day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actually the name says it all... Angst and fluff and finally Johnlock making out!  
> Also Mycroft (and of course the umbrella) make an appearence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have fun, and thanks to everyone who reads and leaves kudos and comments, it's the only thing that makes me get my lazy ass up and write to be honest

“John” was all Sherlock could think, his mind slowing down the situation to a point where it seemed to him like he could see the bullet flying through the air. He couldn’t get himself to fire his own gun like he was supposed to, his ears ringed like short after an explosion, his vision blurry and his brain completely turned off. He could do nothing, the horror washed over him, worse than even at the pool as Moriarty threatened to blow up John-

Because now there was nothing he could do,

because the bullet was already almost at its target.

Because Sherlock wanted to jump in front of John, to pull the god damn trigger just to see that this man stopped grinning,

because his brain, the only thing he could always rely on, apparently had stopped working entirely.

Because all he could do was twirl around to see John standing behind him. To see the blood.

And as he saw the blood, he knew he had lied to the attacker when he said he didn’t know love; When he saw the blood he knew he had emotions, because his computer of a brain should be working, should be finding a solution, but all he could think of was John, he was already feeling like puking just thinking about what could happen. John, who survived so much, John who got home from Afghanistan, couldn’t be hurt. He was far too important. Sherlock refused to admit it. John. His John. He was okay, had to be okay.

But there was blood, and Sherlock felt like he was the one with the bullet in the stomach, so physical was the pain he felt. But the blood also did something else, it ended the moment of motionless shutdown. The gun dropped out of his hand. Deep down, somewhere in the back of his mind Sherlock knew he should never drop his gun, no matter what happened, that he shouldn’t let himself be influenced by emotions, by _friends, or even love_.

But that was deep down, and it was buried under something that felt and sounded like a scream in his head, so loud it blocked out everything else. He heard a cold laugh as John fell and Sherlock dropped right beside him, but he didn’t care about the attacker anymore. He didn’t care when he was pulled from the floor, didn’t care when he realised what was about to happen. The scream had stopped now, and it was replaced by a dull feeling of nothingness, and complete silence.

The attacker spoke now. “I will take away your love and you will know it’s your fault. You should have seen it coming, Mr Holmes.” The man had taken him by his jacket and held him away from himself easily. Sherlock didn’t try to fight back. “The flowers, the perfect clue, the perfect weapon, do you know what they are called? _Blue Bells,_ Mr Holmes, I heard from your impressive case in Dartmoor.” Sherlock blinked. Blue Bell. The rabbit from one of his latest cases. “Remember me, Mr Holmes. I don’t have a name. Just call me Sherlock Holmes’ Enemy”

Then a fist hit him on the right cheek, causing his pine to crack in an unhealthy way. Sharp pain shot through his whole skull and stopped the dull feeling. Now he did fight back, now he wanted to hurt the man like he hurt John. But his attacks were uncoordinated and not strong enough, and the other man was athletic. He punched again, and he kicked Sherlock in the stomach brutally and with force. Sherlock bended, pain filling his whole body. The man punched him, and Sherlock couldn’t even lift his arms to protect his face anymore before the fist crashed against his face. Sherlock could feel liquid running down his face, and to his own surprise his face was wet not only from blood but also from…Tears? Was he crying? He felt stunned, confused, and now the attacker suddenly let go of him, he fell and hit his head hard on the ground. “John”, he managed to mumble, feeling thankful for the darkness finally closing around him.

***

Greg Lestrade drove to the crime scene for the second time today. It had been a long day, and he only did this because Sherlock said it could be very important. His text message said if he saw it he should come as quick as he could to the house of the murdered business woman, what was her name? Miss Ashly? Whatever, he hoped this really was important, he currently worked at three cases at a time. At least he had been close to the house, he could already see the green hill it was on. He came in his normal car, as Sherlock had told him to, and parked a bit away from the house.

He suddenly started to worry, hopefully no one was in danger. He hurried to close the car door and get up to the house, opening the door quickly, crossing the empty hallway and finally stepping into the living room. At first he didn’t see anything, the room seemed empty. Only after looking down, he saw two bodies, and then the blood. “god”, he gasped. Sherlock was lying next to John, blood all over his face, and John was bleeding from a wound in his abdomen, laying on his back like he collapsed.

 ***

He felt pain. Sharp pain in his stomach and dull pain everywhere else. For a few seconds-Or was It minutes? John couldn’t tell -It was the only thing he could feel, before he noticed other things. A warm, soft hand around his own was next, and then sheets and something under him, both just as soft and warm. He didn’t hear anything, just a quiet whir. He felt numbed, confused, and tried to get some memories back. He remembered more pain, and blood- His blood? And Sherlock. And then all of sudden it was all back, the man in the suit, and the pistol in his hand, the crime scene, and Sherlock.

John opened his eyes, just to be immediately blinded by bright lights. He quickly closed his eyes again, and the next time he opened them it was slowly, and he could see again, only blurry at first, then clearly. _Hospital_. He was in a hospital. Hospital bed, hospital-white sheet. He turned his humming head and winced as pain shot through it.

When he turned left, he flinched in surprise and confusion as he saw Sherlock next to him at his bed side. Sherlock was asleep in a wooden chair. Was he…Was he holding his hand? John looked down and indeed, his fingers were crossed with Sherlock’s.

He was holding hands with Sherlock. Again.

“Great”, he muttered sarcastically, ignoring the pain it caused to speak.  He tried to sit up a bit, but a sharp, breathtaking pain caused him to whimper a little. Sherlock woke up from the noise, lifting his head jerkily, and looking at John with a warm, concerned expression. Then he started smiling, even warmer and with the happiest smile John had seen him have in months. “Thank god” Sherlock seemed to have forgotten his self-control for a moment, because he leaned forward and tried to hug John as best as he could, burying his face in John’s neck.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t awkward or too close, John leaned back and they remained like that, Sherlock’s face felt cool and calming on his overheated, hurting skin. “Was my condition really that bad?” he asked after a while, his voice sounding rough and husky even in his own ears. Sherlock sat up, pulling back his hand. John wanted to reach out again, feel Sherlock’s hand, but he didn’t do anything, and Sherlock answered slowly. “We weren’t sure if you would wake up” he said quietly. John saw how bad he looked now, dark rings under his eyes, hair untended, bruises still all over his face.

“When have you been home the last time?” he asked, worried, what was pretty ridiculous considering he was the one in the hospital bed with major injuries. “Um… Today. I came after lunch.” John highly doubted that, although he let it go and didn’t say anything else about it. Sherlock suddenly busted out, sounding whiny and sad. “John I’m sorry! This is my fault, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” He ran a hand through his black curls, seeming stressed and desperate. John couldn’t stand to see him like this, he had to do something to comfort him (or so he told himself), and after all he could still blame the painkillers for this.

Carefully, almost cautiously, he raised a hand and gently took both of Sherlock’s, pulling him closer. Before he even knew what he was doing, or before he could even think of the consequences, he kissed Sherlock, pressing his lips against his softly. It was a short kiss, not rough or passionate, just a short touch of their lips, but the effect it had on Sherlock was remarkable. He seemed reassured, if surprised, he leaned back in his chair. For a short moment they both looked at each other in uncomfortable silence.

“I’ll have to leave out some of this case in my blog, I guess” John said drily, and then both of them broke into slightly hysterical giggling after the tension had broken so suddenly, and Sherlock was smiling, and John was grinning happily.

 

John had convinced Sherlock to go home and was now laying on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to get tired enough to sleep. All of this reminded him of Afghanistan, and he really wished he could be anywhere but in a hospital. A doctor had visited him, apparently he was healing well-Even though it hurt like hell- and Mrs Hudson had brought him his laptop, book and the newest times. He had thought about writing something for his blog, but it seemed more difficult than ever.

John turned his head and looked at the window next to his bed. His room was dark, only the Londoner lights brightened it on this early evening. Sherlock had somehow managed to get him a room for his own, and it was little, but nice, for a hospital. The hospital was little, a private one. John didn’t even want to know how much it costed them. He already knew some of the staff members, like his nurse Lucy, who was friendly but strict and didn’t allow any visitors outside the visit time, besides of  course Sherlock, who had somehow managed to be seen as family. He had most likely just annoyed the staff until they let him stay, he thought with a smile.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, and without waiting for an answer, Mycroft Holmes came in. John looked at him in confusion, because what the hell did he want? Mycroft stepped in the room, leaning his umbrella against the wall.

“How are you doing, John?” the visitor asked with his usual cold smile. “Fine”, he answered drily, “but I hardly think you are here to bring me flowers and wish me good luck” Mycroft sat down on the chair next to John’s bed. It caused John a weird sort of discomfort to see him sit in Sherlock’s place.

“Other than my brother, I’m indeed not here for that.” John looked at him without saying anything. How much did Mycroft know?  “I came to talk about Sherlock.” John raised a brow at that, though he wasn’t exactly surprised. “You know, he isn’t doing too well”, Mycroft started, “as soon as he could leave the hospital again, he came to your room and sat down on the chair, then proceeding to stay there for two full days until you woke up” “ _Two days?”_ John repeated. He knew Sherlock couldn’t have left much, but he didn’t think he would have stayed in the small hospital room for _that_ long either.

“He only left to get something to eat in the cafeteria twice. However, he thinks all that happened is his fault because he didn’t figure out the case. He isn’t completely wrong, of course, yet he overreacts. Do me a favour and stop him from thinking that, John” he added. There was a short silence, and finally Mycroft raised his voice again. “Take care of him”

John stayed silent, too surprised and also too embarrassed to reply to that. Mycroft raised from his chair and slowly walked out of the room without another word.

 

When John woke up the next time, the little window was opened and fresh air, smelling like spring, filled the room. The warm light of the late afternoon sun made everything seem friendlier, less white and sterile. A little vase with blue flowers that hadn’t been there yesterday stood on the bedside table, and Sherlock sat in his chair and read a book. He was wearing brighter clothes than usually, a pastel-yellow button-up shirt under a blue jacket. John wasn’t used to that, but it was nice, his friend’s whole appearance seemed to fit in the whole peaceful, warm scene.

Sherlock looked up, a smile creeping on his face, and John realised he had been starring. Quickly, he looked down, blushing. _I… I’m actually crushing on Sherlock_ , he thought, somewhere between amused and slightly anxious, and right after that he felt his best friend’s warm, soft hand around his own, and looked up again. Sherlock was smiling happily, he seemed relaxed and settled, or at least more than John had seen him in the past few months.

John grinned and nodded towards the flowers at his bedside table. “Are they from you?”  he asked, surprised.  Sherlock’s smile was almost shy as he nodded. “Blue Bells, I thought they would be a fitting reminder of the case”, he said, now with a smirk.  “I thought people like you don’t waste their time picking flowers?” John teased. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we do for  people like  you" That was adorable enough for John to reach out and  place his hands on the other man's neck, without thinking, or even consciously wanting to, he was pulling him down in a kiss. Before he even fully closed his eyes, their lips touched, slightly in the beginning, causing heat to shoot trough John’s entire body, causing him to want more.

As soon as his tongue touched Sherlock’s lips, the detective opened his mouth slightly, and the kiss got wilder and rougher. It felt like heaven, to be able to touch his friend-or should he say boyfriend-like this, and he realised he had wanted this for a long time. Sherlock’s hand left John’s lap, went up to his shoulders and finally his neck, exploring every bit of his skin. He slid his hand under John’s white hospital shirt, touching, caressing.

John couldn’t move much, his whole body still hurt, but he didn’t care. Sherlock’s hands seemed to leave warm, healing traces, that took away the pain-or maybe just made him forget about it-causing his skin to shiver from tension and longing. Every single of his touches seemed to only increase John’s desire. He leaned back and groaned into their kiss as Sherlock stroked over his stomach, careful to stay away from the wound.

John wanted more, wanted him to be closer, wanted to feel Sherlock’s heart pumping against his own. His hands were still behind Sherlock’s neck, clinging to him like a drowning man to a lifesaver. It was almost not bearable, the desperate longing for more, for things he couldn’t have because of his injury. Sherlock moved his hands in the lower areas of John’s stomach, sliding two fingers under the other man’s waistband. John was clinging onto his shoulders now, moaning. Sherlock pulled back his hands and moved them up again-to caress John’s collar bones, shoulders, his muscular arms-

There was a loud noise, Sherlock flinched back immediately and John opened his eyes. Nurse Lucy and an unknown, female doctor stood at the door, emergency card with them. They seemed taken by surprise, eyes widened and mouth slightly opened.

Sherlock was just staring at them furiously, while John was looking down on his sheets, concentrating on the unbelievably fascinating, white fabric on his legs. He was fully intending to refuse to look up. He could hear the doctor murmuring something and leaving slowly through the door. Lucy cleared her throat, and as John looked up slightly again, he could see her face flushing deeply red. “We... Uh, we came to check… Apparently Dr Watson’s heart monitor showed an…uh, an, unusual quick pulse.” She said awkwardly, walking towards the bed. “I see it was nothing dangerous, but I have to ask you to… Be careful with stressing activities while you are in the hospital” she said in a strict tone now, although John could see the little rise of the corners of her mouth and the slight amusement in her eyes.

She checked some of the monitors now, pressing some buttons John didn’t care about the least right now. “This happens sometimes, and we would be…pleased if you could hold back to keep false alarms from happening” She said in a serious voice, and John got the impression this wasn’t the first time she had to say that. He cleared his throat. “We, um, are sorry, it won’t happen again”, he said awkwardly. Lucy nodded and walked towards the door again. As soon as she left the room, the tension disappeared completely and both of them broke into barely suppressed laughter immediately.

 

John had placed his laptop on his lap and was finally writing the case for his blog. He didn’t know whether he was going to upload it, but it was a lot easier to write now. For some reason, he felt like writing down what had happened would make it seem realer, less like a fairy tale, a product of his hidden wishes. Because that was what the entire case seemed to be: a wonderful, colourful spring tale, not at all like something that would ever happen to someone with the bad fortune of John Watson.

He thought back, how it all started as a perfectly normal case, Sherlock’s deductions at the house, how they hurried home. Their walk through the park, the little blue flowers, Blue Bells. Their second time at the crime scene, the man who called himself Sherlock Holmes’ enemy, and finally a sharp pain in his stomach, and then darkness.

His time in the hospital, People visiting, Lestrade coming to tell them the murderer had actually been caught without Sherlock’s help (for once), Molly awkwardly leaving flowers, and of course Mrs Hudson bringing cookies and telling them she knew from the beginning about their feelings for each other (You could have just _told_ me!). Even Anderson came in, even though John suspected he lost a bet against Sargent Donovan, considering how pleased he looked as he gave them fruits and wished him good luck (All that while looking like he would have been okay with both of them staying in the ambulance forever).

John felt like he wouldn't mind hospitals all that much after this.

He smiled at the thought. Right now, Sherlock was eating in the cafeteria. He had claimed he didn’t care if their relationship was mentioned in his partner’s blog, according to him everybody thought of them as a couple anyways.

John finished his entry in the blog, typing the last word and stopping for a moment. Then, without thinking about it, whether it was because of the pain killers, that made him significantly more relaxed, or just because he had a feeling he could deal with his problems without his blog now anyways, he pressed the upload button. Maybe he would have regretted it immediately, but right in that moment someone knocked on the door and Sherlock came in, smiling, and John suddenly couldn’t have cared less about his blog.


End file.
